Poetry

Lighthouse

The lighthouse stands alone, its once bright colored paint
Faded and chipping.
Watching the world from a high, rocky cliff.
Safe from the crashing waves below.
The sea hums a silent tune,
Sorrowful, yet sweet
Singing of tragedy.
Asking with silent words,
"Where is my master, who lights my lantern
And sets the night ablaze?"

An old wooden door,
Worn and rough from the salty sea air,
Darkened with mildew.
It asks the thrashing waves,
"Where is the woman,
Who polished and painted me?
Whose once beautiful floral wreaths,
Now hang lifeless upon my surface,
Blackened with decay?"

Sea gulls fly above
With wings as deep grey as stone,
Or as pure white as freshly fallen snow.
Soaring through the sky,
Darkened with early evening.
Their shrill cries,
Adding a haunting chorus to the song.

A young man once lived here,
His clothes still hanging in the closet,
His possessions lie still in perfect order.
All smelling of mothballs, dust, a slight hint of lavender and mint,
Mingling together in a strange perfume.

Dry and cracked, a dark leather suitcase makes a dent on the bed,
Empty, waiting to be filled with clothes,
And cherished possessions.
Sitting on the bed, waiting to be claimed at last.

The footprints of the young woman,
Still lay, undisturbed, in rocky soil,
Even after all this time.
Overlooking crashing waves,
And a perilous drop below.
The waters sing a melody,
They sing of tragic love,
Claimed by icy, unforgiving depths,
Salty tears, forever mixed with ocean waves.

Melted candles, their wax long hardened,
Remain untouched,
Speaking of the woman,
Eagerly awaiting her lover's return,
A return that would never come.
Pots and pans lay scattered on a kitchen floor,
Broken glass shards ground into the wood.
A once elegant silk dress, now faded with time,
Speaks of one waiting to enchant with beauty.

A torn piece of threadbare cloth,
Once a part of a beautiful gown,
Embroidered with careful fingers,
Twists and flaps in the cool ocean breeze,
Its owner seduced by the frigid waters.

A large piece of heavy wood
Rotted, crusted with barnacles, wrapped in seaweed,
Just a sliver of a once great ship,
Her captain lost to the waves.
The lighthouse sings a song,
But no one is left to listen,
No one but the waves.